application for exit void.
player.
NAME/HANDLE: Valya
PERSONAL JOURNAL:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
windhover
ARE YOU 16 OR OVER?: yup!
CONTACT: grandSolovey @ Plurk, AIM, Gmail
OTHER CHARACTERS: N/A
character.
CHARACTER NAME: Atlas
SERIES: BioShock; here are wiki articles for Atlas and Fontaine.
CANON POINT: Just after he loses contact with Jack in Fort Frolic.
AGE: His given age is 40, but whether that's his actual age or not remains unconfirmed.
APPEARANCE: Atlas is described as a man with movie star looks, and not without good reason. He has a tall stature, broad chest and muscular build, a full head of handsomely-cut golden brown hair, a cleft chin and strong jaw, and the most winning smile you’d find for miles around in the city of Rapture. The full image of him is a damn sight better than that of the bald-headed, thinly-mustached Frank Fontaine, in more than one way: more handsome, more trustworthy, more like a friend with a helping hand than a conman looking to play the whole world for saps.
PREVIOUS GAME HISTORY: N/A
PERSONALITY:
“ I am not a liberator. Liberators do not exist. These people will liberate themselves. ”
If Atlas could be summed up in three words, those three words would be for the people. He is a legend of Rapture, one whose name is known by each and every one of her citizens, whether it’s as a terrorist who seeks to destroy society as Rapture knows it, or as a lone folk hero standing up for the common man in a dystopia controlled by the rich and decadent few. But Atlas sees himself as neither of these things. In his mind, all that he does is for the sake of what’s right, and the lofty titles of hero and villain mean nothing to him. Even when it comes to committing acts that could be considered morally wrong, such as bombings that harm innocents, or hunting down Little Sisters just to harvest their ADAM, his determination pushes on, as sacrifices must be made for the greater good.
But when all hope is lost, and everything comes down to either waging an impossible war or saving his family and escaping the horrors of Rapture for good, Atlas finally sees the futility of his battle. “There was a time when I cared about politics,” he tells Jack, “but it’s just an excuse men use to kill one another. I’m done with all that. I just want to see the sunlight again.” He finally sees that there is no greater good to be had in Rapture, that there is no victory against a man as ruthless as Andrew Ryan, and he finally makes the choice to ensure the safety of his loved ones — and for that, Ryan punishes him by murdering them in cold blood. Now pushed past his breaking point, left with no escape and no other choice, the only thing the once-noble Atlas can do is to enlist the help of his new ally Jack to kill Ryan.
Of course, this would all be a sad, tragic tale . . . if any of it were true.
“ Never play a man for the short con when you can play ‘em for the long one. Atlas is the longest con of all. ”
Yes, it is certainly true that a man called Atlas rallied together the downtrodden common folk of Rapture, incited them to riots, and was responsible for quite a bit of mayhem. Yes, it is true that the figure of Atlas stood for a caring man and a helping hand, the one person in all of Rapture who gave a damn about anyone else. But in these two truths, there is one little problem: “Atlas” is a work of fiction.
The one responsible for this work of fiction is none other than Frank Fontaine, Rapture’s top dog and gangster extraordinaire — or at least he was, until he was supposedly killed in a showdown with the police, but that work of fiction is a story for another time. Not just anyone could have gotten to be a big enough name in Rapture to pose a threat to Andrew Ryan, and so it stands that Fontaine was sure as hell not just anyone. It took plenty of business savvy for him to expand from Fontaine Fisheries into not just the biggest plasmid producer on the market, Fontaine Futuristics, but also to open up business fronts in nearly every market — seriously, take a look at this page and see how many businesses have the Fontaine name attached — and it took just as much criminal savvy for him to operate a smuggling ring right under Ryan’s nose while keeping his own nose squeaky clean.
“ You don't have to build a city to make people worship you . . . just make the chumps believe they're worth a nickel. ”
The only way for him to have accomplished any of this was for him to be, much like Ryan, ruthless to a fault, dedicated to the very end, and unconcerned with anything but his own gain. But Fontaine had one extra edge over Ryan that allowed him to truly work his way to the top: his skill at deceit and manipulation. His intimidating swagger could easily keep his smugglers in line, but he knew that the only way to really get one over on Ryan was to turn his people against him, and he did so easily with “Fontaine’s Helping Hands”: a center of altruism and caring in a city of greed and objectivist values, just as much an appeal to the hearts of the masses as a big brass middle finger to Ryan himself. That plan was only furthered under his Atlas scheme, as he set himself up as a hero of the people to win them over and rally them against Ryan. Although he could very easily have used the would you kindly trigger to order Jack around without any need for such an elaborate plot, he instead chose to spin him a yarn of Moira and Patrick, of his scared and helpless family trapped in a sub and at the mercy of Andrew Ryan.
“ You think there's something worth saving down here? Then you deserve to gargle with the rest of these scrubs. ”
But Fontaine also has his weaknesses, and also like Ryan, these weaknesses lie in his hubris. It was through his own self-assurance that he got to the top of the heap, but it’s when that self-assurance turns to arrogance that the cracks in his façade begin to show. He already has Jack’s allegiance like putty in his hands when he mixes up the facts in his stories of Moira and Patrick, and he doesn’t seem to think twice of his usage of American colloquialisms, calling Sander Cohen a “section 8” and remarking that explosions are “sounding off like the Fourth of July.” Instead of simply disposing of Jack when he still has the chance, he can’t resist the urge to spout off a villainous speech and leaves a squad of robots to (attempt to) finish the job. Although he attempts to turn Jack against Tenenbaum and back over to his side — in addition to splicing himself beyond recognition, first to protect himself against Jack, then as he gives in to the addiction — he completely takes for granted the fact that Jack can’t be so easily manipulated. It’s this oversight that ultimately leads to his death, along with his forgetting the two simple rules of life as a crime boss in Rapture: don’t ever sample the merchandise, and don’t ever turn your back on a pack of little girls with giant needles.
ABILITIES: At his current canon point, Atlas doesn’t have any abilities that could be considered superhuman, but he does have a significant talent for manipulation and deceit. He does have certain powers over a certain castmate, but only in that he knows how to pull all of the strings behind the kid’s mental conditioning...
POSSESSIONS:
❖ the clothes on his back: a worn shirt, pair of maintenance coveralls, heavy work boots, thick rubber gloves, and a flat cap;
❖ a Rapture-produced pistol, fully loaded, and 42 extra rounds of standard ammunition;
❖ the shortwave radio that keeps him in contact with Jack.
samples.
JOURNAL ENTRY SAMPLE: one and two threads from his post on dear-mun, and if it's acceptable, here is one more (canon-compliant) meme thread!
THIRD-PERSON SAMPLE:
“Get out and get to Arcadia! Jesus Christ…”
He switches off the radio, sits back, and watches the flames from the wreckage shoot high. The kid should be scurrying off to Arcadia before too long, even without a WYK nudging him along. There’s nowhere else to go in this rocky hole but forward and up, after all.
But the kid lingers instead, watching the burning sub, much the same as Frank himself is doing right now. What could be going through that little mind of his, he wonders. Could he be shedding a tear for poor Patrick and Moira? Could he be cursing himself for not getting there any sooner, not in nearly enough to have gotten either of the poor souls out of that deathtrap? Or — and here’s a dark thought — could he be scanning the wreckage and the surrounding waters for any sign of their remains?
A dark thought, indeed, one that won’t do at all. He reaches for the radio again, prepares to switch it back on . . . and then the kid moves on, past the sub and down the way to Arcadia.
Good kid. Just like Frank raised him. Or had him raised, rather.
He takes a deep breath, holds and releases it as though he were smoking a fine cigar (the good kind, the Cuban stuff, not the Rapture shit whipped up out of old papers and seashells), and feels the tension leave his body. That had been far too many splicers Ryan had set upon them just now, far, far too many for his liking. But the kid didn’t seem to have much trouble dealing with them, and the sub went off just as he’d planned. All was proceeding smoothly, perhaps more smoothly than he could have hoped. He barely even needed the WYK to get the kid to dance to his tune, what with the Moira and Patrick theatrics he’d conjured up.
And now, with the kid so eagerly in his hands, all that was left was to finish the job.
He wipes a hand over his face, takes another one of those deep breaths, and summons up a little choke in his throat before he switches the radio back on. Atlas has just lost his family, after all.
“Moira… Patrick… Ain’t that just like Ryan. Waits until we’re almost out, and then he pulls the string.”
Even as he speaks to the kid in his choked up brogue, the tone of a man now utterly broken, part of him can’t help but want to laugh. Who knew he’d ever get so far with a bit of dynamite and some crocodile tears?
“We’ll find the bastard. We’ll find him, and we’ll tear his heart out.”
And Ryan won’t have any idea what’s coming to him.
NAME/HANDLE: Valya
PERSONAL JOURNAL:
windhoverARE YOU 16 OR OVER?: yup!
CONTACT: grandSolovey @ Plurk, AIM, Gmail
OTHER CHARACTERS: N/A
character.
CHARACTER NAME: Atlas
SERIES: BioShock; here are wiki articles for Atlas and Fontaine.
CANON POINT: Just after he loses contact with Jack in Fort Frolic.
AGE: His given age is 40, but whether that's his actual age or not remains unconfirmed.
APPEARANCE: Atlas is described as a man with movie star looks, and not without good reason. He has a tall stature, broad chest and muscular build, a full head of handsomely-cut golden brown hair, a cleft chin and strong jaw, and the most winning smile you’d find for miles around in the city of Rapture. The full image of him is a damn sight better than that of the bald-headed, thinly-mustached Frank Fontaine, in more than one way: more handsome, more trustworthy, more like a friend with a helping hand than a conman looking to play the whole world for saps.
PREVIOUS GAME HISTORY: N/A
PERSONALITY:
If Atlas could be summed up in three words, those three words would be for the people. He is a legend of Rapture, one whose name is known by each and every one of her citizens, whether it’s as a terrorist who seeks to destroy society as Rapture knows it, or as a lone folk hero standing up for the common man in a dystopia controlled by the rich and decadent few. But Atlas sees himself as neither of these things. In his mind, all that he does is for the sake of what’s right, and the lofty titles of hero and villain mean nothing to him. Even when it comes to committing acts that could be considered morally wrong, such as bombings that harm innocents, or hunting down Little Sisters just to harvest their ADAM, his determination pushes on, as sacrifices must be made for the greater good.
But when all hope is lost, and everything comes down to either waging an impossible war or saving his family and escaping the horrors of Rapture for good, Atlas finally sees the futility of his battle. “There was a time when I cared about politics,” he tells Jack, “but it’s just an excuse men use to kill one another. I’m done with all that. I just want to see the sunlight again.” He finally sees that there is no greater good to be had in Rapture, that there is no victory against a man as ruthless as Andrew Ryan, and he finally makes the choice to ensure the safety of his loved ones — and for that, Ryan punishes him by murdering them in cold blood. Now pushed past his breaking point, left with no escape and no other choice, the only thing the once-noble Atlas can do is to enlist the help of his new ally Jack to kill Ryan.
Of course, this would all be a sad, tragic tale . . . if any of it were true.
Yes, it is certainly true that a man called Atlas rallied together the downtrodden common folk of Rapture, incited them to riots, and was responsible for quite a bit of mayhem. Yes, it is true that the figure of Atlas stood for a caring man and a helping hand, the one person in all of Rapture who gave a damn about anyone else. But in these two truths, there is one little problem: “Atlas” is a work of fiction.
The one responsible for this work of fiction is none other than Frank Fontaine, Rapture’s top dog and gangster extraordinaire — or at least he was, until he was supposedly killed in a showdown with the police, but that work of fiction is a story for another time. Not just anyone could have gotten to be a big enough name in Rapture to pose a threat to Andrew Ryan, and so it stands that Fontaine was sure as hell not just anyone. It took plenty of business savvy for him to expand from Fontaine Fisheries into not just the biggest plasmid producer on the market, Fontaine Futuristics, but also to open up business fronts in nearly every market — seriously, take a look at this page and see how many businesses have the Fontaine name attached — and it took just as much criminal savvy for him to operate a smuggling ring right under Ryan’s nose while keeping his own nose squeaky clean.
The only way for him to have accomplished any of this was for him to be, much like Ryan, ruthless to a fault, dedicated to the very end, and unconcerned with anything but his own gain. But Fontaine had one extra edge over Ryan that allowed him to truly work his way to the top: his skill at deceit and manipulation. His intimidating swagger could easily keep his smugglers in line, but he knew that the only way to really get one over on Ryan was to turn his people against him, and he did so easily with “Fontaine’s Helping Hands”: a center of altruism and caring in a city of greed and objectivist values, just as much an appeal to the hearts of the masses as a big brass middle finger to Ryan himself. That plan was only furthered under his Atlas scheme, as he set himself up as a hero of the people to win them over and rally them against Ryan. Although he could very easily have used the would you kindly trigger to order Jack around without any need for such an elaborate plot, he instead chose to spin him a yarn of Moira and Patrick, of his scared and helpless family trapped in a sub and at the mercy of Andrew Ryan.
But Fontaine also has his weaknesses, and also like Ryan, these weaknesses lie in his hubris. It was through his own self-assurance that he got to the top of the heap, but it’s when that self-assurance turns to arrogance that the cracks in his façade begin to show. He already has Jack’s allegiance like putty in his hands when he mixes up the facts in his stories of Moira and Patrick, and he doesn’t seem to think twice of his usage of American colloquialisms, calling Sander Cohen a “section 8” and remarking that explosions are “sounding off like the Fourth of July.” Instead of simply disposing of Jack when he still has the chance, he can’t resist the urge to spout off a villainous speech and leaves a squad of robots to (attempt to) finish the job. Although he attempts to turn Jack against Tenenbaum and back over to his side — in addition to splicing himself beyond recognition, first to protect himself against Jack, then as he gives in to the addiction — he completely takes for granted the fact that Jack can’t be so easily manipulated. It’s this oversight that ultimately leads to his death, along with his forgetting the two simple rules of life as a crime boss in Rapture: don’t ever sample the merchandise, and don’t ever turn your back on a pack of little girls with giant needles.
ABILITIES: At his current canon point, Atlas doesn’t have any abilities that could be considered superhuman, but he does have a significant talent for manipulation and deceit. He does have certain powers over a certain castmate, but only in that he knows how to pull all of the strings behind the kid’s mental conditioning...
POSSESSIONS:
❖ the clothes on his back: a worn shirt, pair of maintenance coveralls, heavy work boots, thick rubber gloves, and a flat cap;
❖ a Rapture-produced pistol, fully loaded, and 42 extra rounds of standard ammunition;
❖ the shortwave radio that keeps him in contact with Jack.
samples.
JOURNAL ENTRY SAMPLE: one and two threads from his post on dear-mun, and if it's acceptable, here is one more (canon-compliant) meme thread!
THIRD-PERSON SAMPLE:
“Get out and get to Arcadia! Jesus Christ…”
He switches off the radio, sits back, and watches the flames from the wreckage shoot high. The kid should be scurrying off to Arcadia before too long, even without a WYK nudging him along. There’s nowhere else to go in this rocky hole but forward and up, after all.
But the kid lingers instead, watching the burning sub, much the same as Frank himself is doing right now. What could be going through that little mind of his, he wonders. Could he be shedding a tear for poor Patrick and Moira? Could he be cursing himself for not getting there any sooner, not in nearly enough to have gotten either of the poor souls out of that deathtrap? Or — and here’s a dark thought — could he be scanning the wreckage and the surrounding waters for any sign of their remains?
A dark thought, indeed, one that won’t do at all. He reaches for the radio again, prepares to switch it back on . . . and then the kid moves on, past the sub and down the way to Arcadia.
Good kid. Just like Frank raised him. Or had him raised, rather.
He takes a deep breath, holds and releases it as though he were smoking a fine cigar (the good kind, the Cuban stuff, not the Rapture shit whipped up out of old papers and seashells), and feels the tension leave his body. That had been far too many splicers Ryan had set upon them just now, far, far too many for his liking. But the kid didn’t seem to have much trouble dealing with them, and the sub went off just as he’d planned. All was proceeding smoothly, perhaps more smoothly than he could have hoped. He barely even needed the WYK to get the kid to dance to his tune, what with the Moira and Patrick theatrics he’d conjured up.
And now, with the kid so eagerly in his hands, all that was left was to finish the job.
He wipes a hand over his face, takes another one of those deep breaths, and summons up a little choke in his throat before he switches the radio back on. Atlas has just lost his family, after all.
“Moira… Patrick… Ain’t that just like Ryan. Waits until we’re almost out, and then he pulls the string.”
Even as he speaks to the kid in his choked up brogue, the tone of a man now utterly broken, part of him can’t help but want to laugh. Who knew he’d ever get so far with a bit of dynamite and some crocodile tears?
“We’ll find the bastard. We’ll find him, and we’ll tear his heart out.”
And Ryan won’t have any idea what’s coming to him.